I was fourteen and my brother Joe was eight, the summer we were shipped off to visit our grandmother in Macon, Georgia, and our aunt (Mom’s sister), uncle and two young male cousins in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I never understood why, and there is nobody left to ask. Well, maybe there is, but I’m not about to make that phone call.

When we were in Fayetteville, my aunt worked during the day, but my uncle was home. He wouldn’t leave me alone—always coming up behind me when I was washing dishes or making lunch for my brother and cousins—grabbing me, tickling me. I wriggled away—uncomfortable, confused. I was tall, skinny, and gawky, with braces on my teeth.

At night my brother slept with the boys, and I had a pillow and blanket on the sofa in the den. When it was late and dark, my uncle emerged from their bedroom wearing a white T-shirt and boxers, turned on the television, and touched me. I pretended to be asleep, or stared straight into nothingness. My aunt never came out.

I don’t remember how long Joe and I were there—I just remember being repulsed by and afraid of my uncle, but unable to tell anybody. I was scared to tell my aunt. My brother was too young to understand. When my uncle put us on the bus to Macon, he gave me a trashy “romance” magazine. Horrified, I threw it under the seat.

When we got to Grandma’s house, I told her—she was my safe person. Grandma was instantly enraged at my uncle, pulled me close—rocked and comforted me. When I got home I told my mother. She didn’t believe me, said I probably “didn’t understand.” I didn’t tell Daddy because I knew he would believe me and I knew he would kill him.

I was alone with my shameful secret. It was never spoken of again until years later and then, only obliquely. Mom was living with me and my family in Chicago and she told me my aunt and uncle planned to visit. I said, “They can’t stay here.” She asked, “Why not?” I said, “I won’t have a child molester staying in my house.” Mom blanched and said nothing more. My aunt and uncle never came to Chicago.

Through my years of education and training to be a psychologist, I learned the “language” of abuse—shame, denial, dissociation, collusion—and over the years my personal experience has informed my work with patients, women and men. I have complete empathy for their shame and fear and feelings of betrayal. And I have rage.

A few years ago I was in session with a young woman—talking about how her sexual abuse manifested in physical symptoms—when I had a realization. It was one of those moments when the lens turns and suddenly something you didn’t even know you were looking at comes into sharp focus. Suddenly, I KNEW.

Daddy was a paratrooper in the Special Forces, stationed at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina (just outside Fayetteville) when I was in pre-school and kindergarten. It’s where Joe was born when I was five. My uncle was a mechanic with his own garage. There was a field in the back that was planted with crops. He had a tractor and used to put me on his lap while he drove the tractor. It was fun, and he was my favorite uncle.

But when we lived at Ft. Bragg, I used to have severe break-outs of hives my parents called “peek-a-boos.” They always happened at night, always involved my parents returning home after a phone call, and always resulted in a trip to the Army hospital. Although I have NO MEMORIES—that day during that session I realized with absoluteclarity that my “peek-a-boos” only occurred after my aunt and uncle babysat me.

Last night, I “Googled” my uncle. I hoped to find his obituary, but I didn’t. My aunt’s, either. I haven’t kept in touch with any of my mother’s side of the family since her death, so I doubt any of them will ever read this. But I have no interest in protecting anybody to compromise my truth. I was compromised enough as a child.

Sadly, I am far from alone. The statistics on a woman being beaten, raped, or otherwise sexually violated in her lifetime is one in three. That means one billion women on the planet. I have no doubt the numbers are accurate, or even low, since sexual and domestic abuse are still the least reported crimes. This Thursday, February 14, has been declared V-Day by the organization, One Billion Rising. V-Day is an activist movement to raise awareness and end global violence against women and girls.

V-Day is a beautiful start. To continue the fight there needs to be more education. Abused children will usually only reach out once, and if not believed or heard, the shame they experience will cause them to retreat inward and keep their terrible secret. Shame is the greatsilencer. Only when we all break through our shame and add our voices to the chorus, can we teach that shame belongs to the abuser—not the victim.

This was my hardest essay to write. Last night I couldn’t stop itching. As I reached behind me to scratch my back I felt the rash of welts—hives. Speaking the truth is scary, but not sharing what can help others feels shameful.

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12 Comments

JaneFebruary 12, 2013 @ 12:41 AM

You wonderful woman! I know that writing this blog had to be THE hardest thing for you! I am crying for the little girl that you were and all that you had to endure—and for the fact that you had no one to turn to!! Thank you for having the courage to share your story. Love you!

I hope that you can feel my arms around you from miles away, if I could take this pain that you have had to endure away from you, I would in a heart beat. Having been, and still am, the overprotective father of daughters, I know the pain that my daughter held in for years. Having to bear that cross for years now, I tell any new father that I can to watch what they say to their children, since boys are molested also, because their children will keep their incidents to themselves to keep their Dads from taking the law into their own hands and possibly taken away from them.

Wow, this is a powerful post, Sheila. Deeply touching and empowering to anyone who suffered an abuse, especially as a child. Putting a story like this out into the universe can only heal and help many. I’m so proud to be associated with a person of your caliber.

Thank you for your bravery. There are so many who will find understanding, community, and release from your willingness to share your story. Our bodies can say what our mouths are afraid to; your hives were your voice when you had no other.

My heart goes out to that little girl and my admiration goes out to the woman she has become.

Dear Melissa, Thank you so much for your sweet words of encouragement. Comments like yours reinforce the need for all of us to find our personal truths and speak out whenever we CAN… giving voices to those who CANNOT, for whatever reason. I so appreciate your reading and responding.

I know how brave you are, because I am trying to be this brave. I know how deeply painful it is – on and on – to know those closest to you knew and did nothing. I know this because I now know my mother heard me being raped and did nothing, and I have been protecting her for 30 years from this knowledge. We must set ourselves free. I wish you all freedom and creativity.

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